Viv Corringham has never been content to let the world hum quietly in the background. "Soundwalkscapes (volume 2)" proves once again that she isn’t merely documenting environments, but entering into mischievous, intimate conspiracies with them. Her voice doesn’t float above the field recordings like a polite commentary - it wriggles inside them, impersonates their textures, teases out their hidden melodies, and sometimes just orders a cappuccino, reminding us that even the most transcendent sonic meditation must occasionally bow to caffeine.

The premise is deceptively simple: one walk per month, one composition per walk. Yet from this routine emerges a dazzling catalogue of human-environment entanglement. In Greece, she straddles the acoustic boundary between bee and chicken, collapsing species distinctions into a brief sonic hybrid. In London, she revives the long-buried Walbrook River not by hydrology but by voice, her swoops and lilts sketching its contours into being again. In Münster, she hears a train station’s gusts as rhythm, giving architecture the pulse of percussion. These are not “pure” documents - nor should they be. Corringham dismantles the old purist fantasy that field recordists must erase themselves in order to reveal the world. Instead, she insists: the world sounds different "because I am here".

The effect can be funny - an amphibian croak that might be her, might be a frog - or disarmingly poetic, as her singing seeps into the gaps between raindrops or echoes through a museum gallery like a spectral guide. Sometimes she inhabits the spaces with theatrical flourish, flinging her voice to the stereo extremes as if she’s playing both ghost and ghost-hunter. At other times she retreats into interior reverie, letting layered vocal lines replace external sound entirely, like dreamscapes bubbling up beneath the pavement.

This approach feels like an extension of her long-running “Shadow-walks” project, but here the palette is denser, more playful, less reverent. It’s not just deep listening; it’s listening with a wink, a sly recognition that artifice and reality are forever tangled. She’s as much Pauline Oliveros’ student as she is a street jester with a microphone, tugging us into heightened awareness through moments of sly absurdity.

"Soundwalkscapes (volume 2)" is both travelogue and autobiography, a reminder that place is never a fixed backdrop but a dialogue: feet crunching on gravel, voices rebounding against concrete, weather adjusting its pitch as bodies move through it. Corringham doesn’t just give us a record of six months’ wanderings; she gifts us a reminder that every walk - every breath, every croak, every cappuccino - reshapes the landscape ever so slightly.

Listening feels like being smuggled into her daydreams, equal parts documentary and hallucination. You don’t just hear the world as it is - you hear how it listens back.